


Concilliabule

by Beleriandings



Series: Nargothrond and Beyond [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Nargothrond, Politics, Team Finrod internal dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Finrod + others, Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concilliabule

“My king, I’m sorry I’m late, I - ” Orodreth broke off as he caught sight of Finrod across the room. He frowned. “Was I mistaken? I thought you said the noon hour…”

“I did. You’re in exactly the right place, don’t worry.”

“I thought you said there would be a meeting to discuss strategy with the sons of Fëanáro…”

“I did” said Finrod calmly, laying down the golden clasp he had been about to pin up a section of his hair with. “And I meant that.” He turned to Orodreth, who was closing the door behind him. “Come in, Arto. And none of that _my king_ nonsense here. Not until the council meeting at least.” Finrod smiled gently. “I’d offer you tea, or elderflower cordial, or wine if you should prefer, but unfortunately I already sent that sweet girl Caelinwen off to see to the refreshments for the council. They should be most satisfactory, at least, if you can wait an hour or so. The golden Hithlum ice wine, four fifty-two vintage, and the honey cakes with star anise. Red grapes and golden plums.” Finrod titled his head, sending a glimmer of light across the room as the light from the lampstone caught in the pale jade and pearl pins that already held up one side of his hair elegantly. “What do you think? Does that sound too sweet?”

Orodreth shook his head. “It’s a small issue. I don’t think it matters that much, really.”

“Oh, but it does” said Finrod softly, gesturing for Orodreth to come in, even as he turned back to the mirror and carried on pinning up his hair. 

“What do you mean?”

“Small things do matter, Arto. You will have to learn that.” Finrod had finished pinning his hair. “For you will need to know, one day. Edrahil, my crown please.”

Orodreth had been about to ask what Finrod meant by _one day_ , when he was startled by Edrahil stepping out of the shadows at the side of the heavily curtained walls, silently handing Finrod the inlaid box in which the crown of Nargothrond rested on soft velvet. It fitted perfectly amongst the elegantly twined braids at the top of Finrod’s head, the rest of his hair spilling down his back in golden waves. Orodreth could not help but watch him, feeling a mere pale, washed out afterimage in comparison. 

Finrod was smiling ruefully at Edrahil. “My dear Edrahil, do remind me to not order you about like that next time. I know I’ve said it before, but I do apologise for treating you like my butler. After all, you’re one of my most cherished advisors and friends, never forget that.”

Orodreth narrowed his eyes. He could have sworn he saw Edrahil blush. 

“It’s nothing, my king. I am glad to serve. Would you like to wear the Nauglamír today?”

“Naturally” said Finrod. “But I shall get it myself.” He made to turn to the far wall, the door into his walk-in cupboard of jewellery, whose centrepiece was the necklace that had been made for him all those years before.

Edrahil was shaking his head though. “I can - ”

“I’ll go” cut in Orodreth firmly. Without waiting for either of them to contradict him, he picked up the key from where it lay on Finrod’s dressing table, going to the cupboard and taking the Nauglamír from its elegant display stand. 

Finrod bent forward and raised his hair to let Orodreth clasp it about his throat, then turned to him with a smile, straightening the front of his high-collared damask robe with a flourish. “Thank you, Arto” he said, briskly. “Now, we may begin.”

“Begin what?”

“Begin the council” said Edrahil, giving Orodreth a look up and down. “Clearly our king finds your opinion valuable, otherwise he wouldn’t have called you here.”

Orodreth felt anger flare. “Know your place, councillor. You are not of the house of Arafinwë, you step beyond your - ”

“Be at peace Arto, Edrahil” said Finrod gently, placing a hand between the two of them. “Arto, you are my own blood and I love you well and cherish your council. Edrahil, you have been at my side so long I think of you as family, too, you must know. And you are both here in this room, are you not? I called you here because I will need both of you if I am to settle the situation with the sons of Fëanáro.”

Orodreth looked down at his feet, while Edrahil bowed quickly. “Yes, of course. The sons of Fëanáro.” His expression soured. “What is there to settle though? We are giving them a place, after they came seeking refuge. They are under our jurisdiction, and if they do not like the laws of the king of Nargothrond, they can take themselves back to the burned and blackened eastern wilderness they came from.”

Finrod smiled, a little indulgently. “Ah, Arto, if only it were that simple.”

“Is it not?”

“Unfortunately not, no. On the face of it, yes, the sons of Fëanáro and their people are here by virtue of my charity and are subject to my laws. But a king’s law is only as strong as his ability to enforce it.”

Orodreth frowned. “You fear betrayal? A rebellion? Surely not, our people would never…”

“They are starting to already” snapped Edrahil, his hand curling over the hilt of a small, jewel-inlaid dagger at his belt, almost instinctively. “Have you not heard the talk in the smith’s quarter?”

“ _Surprisingly_ , no - ”

“That’s where it began anyway, but now…”

“It’s not quite that serious. Not yet, anyway” cut in Finrod, laying two fingers on Edrahil’s hand to draw it from his blade. Edrahil was not very effective in suppressing his twitches, Orodreth noticed, with a little flicker of satisfaction. “But the sons of Fëanáro do have greater force of numbers than we do, and their influence is growing.”

“Their people are fewer than ours, and displaced and diminished by war.”

Finrod was shaking his head. “Their faction is not as small as you’d think, and their people are nothing if not resilient. They know that we need them, too. They saw the gap in our forces as soon as they entered the city, our losses from the Dagor Bragollach. It was the only reason we even had the resources to take them in. And Edrahil is right, they are gaining influence amongst the smiths and artisans. Especially the younger generation, who were not at Alqualondë…”

Orodreth curled his hands into fists at the mention of Alqualondë. “Curse the kinslayers and curse the day we took them in! If they are to betray us again…”

“But they have _not_ betrayed us” said Finrod. “They hold the threat of betrayal as a piece in a game, but they have not made use of it yet, and it is all the more dangerous for it.” That gentle, amused smile again. “What would you do, Arto? I’d be interested to hear what you have to say.”

“Get rid of them! Turn them out. We don’t need them, and they’ll only cause us trouble.”

“But our people love them” said Finrod, more to himself than to either Orodreth or Edrahil. “And they do make up a large section of Nargothrond’s fighting force now. Even if we are to stay within our walls, we need people to defend them. Otherwise, walls are not much use, because the enemy can always find a way through.”

 _The enemy is already here_ , thought Orodreth bitterly, but he did not say this. “Then I suppose we must keep them” he said mulishly. “But show them our strength. Show them that we are not a kingdom to be seized and turned into puppets of the house of Fëanáro. Show them that the house of Arafinwë remembers Alqualondë.”

“I mean to” said Finrod quietly. Then he smiled. “And of course that is the end to which I am calling this council. A light touch is necessary to start with, I think, but they do need to be shown how things proceed at the council table of the king of Nargothrond. After that, we can begin the real work to be done.”

Orodreth was not quite sure he liked the sound of this. “What do you mean?”

“Arto, your daughter… is she betrothed to… that lord, Guillin’s son, what’s his name?”

“Gwindor” said Orodreth. “Well, Finduilas loves Gwindor, and he her, that much is clear as day. I’ve been expecting them to announce their betrothal any day now, and I would hardly be opposed to such a match…”

“Ah, a pity” said Finrod. “I had noticed that Finduilas had begun spending time with young Tyelperinquar of late, and I thought that maybe if something were to come of it… growing naturally of course… then perhaps a marriage between the houses of Arafinwë and Fëanáro would be mutually advantageous…”

Orodreth spluttered, horrified. “I cannot stop my daughter from being friends with that boy, true, but I will not make her marry him against her will! And even if it _was_ her will… which it’s not! I would not have her marry a kinslayer. Or have you forgotten, Findaráto? Have you forgotten our people’s blood on the sand?”

“I have certainly not forgotten” said Finrod. There was an edge of steel in his voice, but a moment later it was gone. He sighed. “Never mind, Arto, it was only an idea. And I am certain Curufinwë’s views on such a marriage would be at _least_ as unfavourable as yours.” He hushed Orodreth’s protest at being compared to Curufin with a raised hand, glimmering with rings. “Besides, making anyone marry against their will is the opposite of what I want.”

Orodreth was just about to speak, when the clock on the wall let out a quiet, melodic chime of bells. “Ah, did the time pass so quickly?” said Finrod. “Come, we must take care not to be late.”

Edrahil bowed. “Indeed my king.”

Orodreth followed up his bow, straightening his robes as Finrod began to make his way to the door. “Oh, and my dear Edrahil, it would be best for our relations with the sons of Fëanáro if you did not keep _quite_ so many daggers on your person at a council of peace.” His mouth quirked up in an amused smile. “Or if you must, then at least hide them a little better.”

Orodreth smiled to himself too as Edrahil flushed, muttering something as he pulled a few hidden knives from his the tops of his boots, hurrying to follow after Finrod. But as they made their way out into the corridor, his smile soon faded. A council of peace, Finrod had called it, but Orodreth was not so sure. 

To him, it felt a little too much like a council of war. 


End file.
